


Cockwarming

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [70]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M, not very much porn at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 02:32:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5894677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case goes...not quite as expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cockwarming

John doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to see it or smell it either but he doesn’t have much of a choice. On the other end of the backseat of Lestrade’s car, Sherlock tries to look like he had planned this all along instead of simply being forced to take this option because none of the taxis would stop for them.

“If it makes you feel better,” John says, “At least you’re ruining his upholstery.”

Sherlock’s face lightens just a bit at the thought. In the front seat, Lestrade makes a snorting sound.

“You know I could have just left you to walk home,” the DI says.

“From Epping,” John says tonelessly.

“Or take the underground.”

Sherlock’s turn to snort now. “Don’t worry, Gavin, I’m sure my brother will be more than happy to clean your seat.”

“Oi! I might still make you walk.”

Sherlock sneers but stays silent and John feels it’s safe now to roll his eyes. He turns resolutely to the window, determined not to see it. Or smell it. Or think about it.

There is the soft sound of clucking from the metal cage on the car seat beside him.

Or _hear_ it.

He sighs. “Sherlock.”

“John.”

John pauses and considers what he wants to ask, but apart from _Really, though?_ there isn’t very much he can say. And apparently that question’s already been answered by the presence of the thing in question. He sighs again anyway, just for good measure, and turns back to the window.

Lestrade takes them right to their door, a fact for which John is disgustingly grateful. Though probably not as grateful as Lestrade is to finally get them off his upholstery. They are both covered in feathers and shit and things John doesn’t want to— _can’t_ —think about and the sleeve of John’s favourite jacket and shirt have been entirely cut away where the lye had soaked through to burn his skin. The flesh on his hand and wrist is red and irritated and as John tries to ignore the lingering raw sting of the rash, he tries to remember if they have Polyfax in the house. He mentally catalogues what he remembers of the contents of their cupboards but as he rarely pays much attention to them past _tea, sugar, beans_ the distraction is distressingly short-lived.

Sherlock hasn’t said anything yet about John’s injury, but when they reach the flat he surprises both John and Lestrade by wordlessly taking out the cage with their new temporary flatmate himself. The bird, miserable and shivering in the nest of old blankets John had thrown in there with it, makes a pathetic sounding crowing noise as it’s jostled.

Both John and Lestrade watch him go, not even stopping when Mrs Hudson flings the door open, clucking like a worried hen at this new potential disruption of her peace.

“He _must_ feel bad,” John says.

“Almost touching, really,” Lestrade agrees and he glances sideways at John. “Quite sweet.”

John tries to glare at him. “Shut up.”

Lestrade grins. “Sure you don’t want a ride to the A and E? Chemical burns can be tricky.”

“It’s fine. Nothing they can do about it now anyway. I had my hand shoved under the pump along with the new flatmate for at least thirty minutes while Sherlock and Donovan were insulting each other. It shouldn’t be too bad.”

“Right, well, call me if you need a hand.”

“I’ve got Sherlock’s,” John can’t help saying and he keeps his face entirely bland while Lestrade’s slowly turns red.

“John bloody Watson. Who knew you had it in you.”

John barely stops himself from replying to that with the obvious rejoinder and wonders what on earth has gotten into him. Maybe the fumes from the lye have shut his higher brain functions down.

“Right, well, ta mate. Wednesday?”

“Yeah, course. See you, John.”

John makes his way through the still open door and up the stairs. He can hear Mrs Hudson wittering plaintively from the kitchen and he sighs again because dealing with landladies is usually his job. But when he gets there he’s surprised to find Sherlock with a firm hand on the small of her back, gently but insistently steering her out into the hallway.

“Sherlock, you can’t just leave it like that!” She’s protesting. “Look at the poor thing!”

“Yes, well, John’s a doctor you know. A very good doctor.”

“What’s that to the point?” she demands before catching sight of John and giving him a pleading look. “People are _not_ the same as chickens, John.”

“It’s a cock,” John says. “And no, they’re not.” She glares at him but he can’t bring himself to give her any more of an answer and he dodges around her into the sitting room and seconds later John hears the twin sounds of the doors closing and the flat is mercifully silent.

He shuts his eyes, wondering if tiredness, hygiene, or first aid will trump, when there’s the sound of a quiet shuffle behind him and two arms circle tightly around his waist from behind. He groans, leaning back into that familiar weight, and even though they’re both a mess the soft inhalation against his neck is bliss.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to say anything, but John knows this about him—about them both really—and he holds his left hand up and displays the reddened skin with business-like intent. “It’s fine,” he says. “It’ll go away.”

“I was clumsy.”

“It happens,” John says and he pushes his head back, seeking the solidity of that familiar shoulder. “First, I need to deal with our new flatmate,” he says. “Then shower. Then bandages. Then possibly sex. Then definitely sleep.”

Sherlock hums, a low groaning sound that vibrates against John’s ear and slithers all the way down his spine where it comes to a stop, pooling in his groin. “The cock. Shower _and_ sex. Then bandages. Then sleep.”

John smiles, his eyes still closed. “I can compromise,” and he makes himself step away from the heady warmth behind him, knowing if he doesn’t go now he’ll never move again.

He gets the baby aspirin, crushing the little pill into a powder before mixing it with water as best he can. He fills a syringe with the mixture before approaching the cage with the cock in it. It’s sitting in the middle of the kitchen table and he looks at it for a minute before opening the wired hatch. It’s shivering, eyes wide and shocked, the bald patches where the lye had burnt it a match for John’s.

It barely protests when John pulls it out, but he makes Sherlock tie cloths around its talons anyway before tucking it under one arm and easing the syringe into its beak with the other. He presses the plunger down slowly, letting the bird swallow between each small dose. When the syringe is empty he wraps it tightly in a clean blanket and puts it back in its cage. He looks up to find Sherlock watching him, a soft expression on his angular face.

“Shut up,” John says.

“It would have been more humane to euthanise it.”

“No it wouldn’t. The burns aren’t severe enough to justify killing it. It might not grow the feathers back but it won’t be in any kind of discomfort. How long do we need to keep it anyway.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Depends on its metabolism.”

“Diamond smuggling via chicken shit,” John sighs. “Brilliant.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, holds his hand out wordlessly and John goes to him.

They strip each other quickly and efficiently. Their clothes are not quite beyond repair (at least not all of them) but they’re enough of a mess that neither of them want to make a show of keeping them on. John turns on the water and they kiss, a slow, comforting motion while they wait for it to heat up. When the steam starts to curl towards the ceiling, John steps into the tub and drags Sherlock in behind him.

They keep kissing, a lavishly exorbitant exchange while they soap each other down, running slippery hands over tired limbs and into crevices, washing away sweat and filth. John keeps his left hand out of the stream of the too-hot water, but Sherlock carefully cleans around it with the soap and the tips of his fingers, rinsing it slowly with cooled water cupped in the palm of his hands. It’s absurd and time consuming and John just stands there and lets him do it and loves him for it.

They touch each other everywhere, as they always do after one of them’s been injured. A silent reassurance that both of them are there, each of them for the most part intact. And because Sherlock promised, John isn’t surprised when the tip of a slippery finger eventually finds its way into the crevice of his bum and slips without fuss into his body. He moans, because Sherlock loves the noises he makes, and flexes his hips backwards into the intrusion. Sherlock’s lips are at his neck, their erections trapped in the wet space between their bellies.

It doesn’t take long. It never does like this because there is nothing John likes better than Sherlock’s long fingers easing him over the edge. He pants and groans his orgasm into Sherlock’s chest and the water sluices between them, washing them clean again.

They dry themselves because the air is cool and the shower has left them drowsy, and stopping only to swallow two aspirin himself, John finds himself pulled into bed. He goes without protest, refusing to think about the cock on their kitchen table, and falls asleep almost immediately.

When he wakes it’s several hours later. The room is dark and Sherlock is gone, but the spot beside him is still warm and there’s a sliver of light visible under the bedroom door. Pulling his dressing gown on, wincing at the drag of the material over the burn on his hand, he remembers he had meant to bandage it earlier.

He finds Sherlock standing at the kitchen counter, a piece of bread in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He’s looking at the kitchen table with a somewhat bemused expression on his face and John follows his gaze to where it finds the cock, roosting with black eyes closed in its cage. It’s wearing a jumper

“Um,” John says.

Sherlock nods to a piece of note paper on the counter beside him without taking his eyes off the sleeping bird. John picks it up.

_A warmer for your cock, though I don’t think that’s a very polite name for it whatever John says. -Mrs H_

“Um,” says John again.

Sherlock snorts. “I suppose you’ll want to name it.”

John looks at it. The miniature jumper is red and navy blue and cream and looks remarkably like one that John owns.

“I thought we were going to send it back after it…”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and John recognises defeat. He also recognises when he’s about to be blamed for one of Sherlock’s whims.

“Right,” he says. “Good. How about Cedric.”


End file.
